men without hats, "and splashed fearful;" he
added, "I thought they had broken prison; but
'twas no business of mine: they paid for the
bread right enough."

On hearing they had entered Rochester
hatless, the shrewd Mr. Green made direct to the
very nearest slop-shop, and his sagacity was
rewarded; the shopkeeper was a chatterbox, and
told him yes, two gents out on a frolic had
bought a couple of hats of him, and a whole set
of sailor's clothes. "I think they were respectable,
too: but nothing else would satisfy him. So
the young one he humoured him, and bought
them. I took his old ones in exchange."

At that Green offered a sovereign for the old
clothes blindfold. The trader instantly asked
two pounds, and took thirty shillings.

Green now set the police to scour the town
for a gentleman and a common sailor in company,
offered a handsome reward, and went to bed in a
small inn, with David's clothes by the kitchen
fire. Early in the morning he went to Mrs.
Dodd's hotel with David's clothes nicely dried,
and told her his tale. She knew the clothes
directly, kissed them, and cried over them: then
gave him her hand with a world of dignity and
grace: "What an able man! Sir, you inspire
me with great confidence."

"And you me with zeal, ma'am," said the
delighted Green. "Why I'd go through fire and
water for a lady like you, that pays well, and
doesn't grudge a fellow a bit of praise. Now you
must eat a bit, ma'am, if it's ever so little, and then
we'll take the road; for the police think the
parties have left the town, and by their night's
work they must be good travellers."

The dog-cart took the road, and the ex-hunter
stepped out thirteen miles an hour.

Now at this moment Alfred and David were
bowling along ahead with a perfect sense of
security. All that first night, the grandest of his
life, Alfred walked on air, and drank the glorious
exhilarating breath of Freedom. But, when the
sun dawned on them, his intoxicating joy began
to be dashed with apprehension; hatless and
bemired, might they not be suspected and
detained by some officious authority?

But the slop-shop set that all right. He took
a double-bedded room in The Bear, locked the
door, put the key under his pillow, and slept till
eleven. At noon they were on the road again,
and, as they swung lustily along in the frosty
but kindly air, Alfred's chest expanded, his
spirits rose, and he felt a man all over.
Exhilarated by freedom, youth, and motion, and a
little inflated by reviving vanity, his heart,
buoyant as his foot, now began to nurse aspiring
projects: he would indict his own father, and
the doctors, and immolate them on the altar of
justice, and publicly wipe off the stigma they had
cast on him, and meantime he would cure David
and restore him to his family.

He loved this harmless companion of his cell,
his danger, and his flight; loved him for Julia's
sake, loved him for his own. Youth and vanity
whispered, "I know more about madness than
the doctors; I have seen it closer." It struck him
David's longing for blue water was one of those
unerring instincts that sometimes guide the sick
to their cure. And then, as the law permits the
forcible recapture of a patient—without a fresh
order or certificates—within fourteen days of his
escape from an asylum, he did not think it
prudent to show himself in London till that time
should have elapsed: so, all things considered,
why not hide a few days with David in some
insignificant seaport, and revel in liberty and blue
water with him all day long, and so by associations
touch the spring of memory, and begin the
cure. As for David, he seemed driven seaward
by some unseen spur; he fidgeted at all delay;
even dinner fretted him; he panted so for his
natural element. Alfred humoured him, and an
hour after sunset they reached the town of Canterbury.
Here Alfred took the same precautions
as before, and slept till nine o'clock.

When he awoke, he found David walking to
and fro impatiently. "All right, messmate,"
said Alfred, "we shall soon be in blue water."
He made all haste, and they were on the road
again by ten, walking at a gallant pace.

But the dog-cart was already rattling along
about thirty miles behind them. Green inquired
at all the turnpikes and vehicles; the scent was
cold at first, but warmer by degrees, and hot at
Canterbury. Green just baited his gallant horse,
and came foaming on, and just as the pair entered
the town of Folkestone, their pursuers came up
to the cross roads, not five miles behind them.

Alfred went to a good inn in Folkestone, and
ordered a steak, then strolled with David by the
beach, and gloried in the water with him.
"After dinner we will take a boat, and have a
sail," said he. "See, there's a nice boat, riding at
anchor there."

David snuffed the breeze and his eye sparkled,
and he said, "Wind due east, messmate." And
this remark, slight as it was, was practical, and
gave Alfred great delight: strengthened his
growing conviction that not for nothing had this
charge been thrown on him. He should be the
one to cure his own father: for Julia's father was
his: he had no other now. "All right," said he
gaily, "we'll soon be on blue water: but first
we'll have our dinner, old boy, for I am starving."
David said nothing, and went rather
doggedly back to the inn with him.

The steak was on the table. Alfred told the
waiter to uncover and David to fall to, while he
just ran up-stairs to wash his hands. He came
down in less than two minutes; but David was
gone, and the waiter standing there erect and
apathetic like a wooden sentinel.

"Why where is he?" said Alfred.

"Gent's gone out," was the reply.

"And you stood there and let him? you born
idiot. Which way is he gone?"

"I don't know," said the waiter angrily, "I
ain't a p'liceman. None but respectable gents
comes here, as don't want watching." Alfred